A FINAL EXCITEMENT
AT first Betty had not seen how she could possibly be spared from
“business” on the most strenuous night in the Tally-ho’s history, with
three class suppers being eaten at once in its precincts, a chef from
Boston lording it over Bridget in the kitchen,--or trying to, and a
little army of strange waitresses to be shown the way about. But 19--
was firm; its president must and should sit through the whole supper
on the right hand of Eleanor Watson, who was toast-mistress again this
year; must present the mammoth ploshkin to T. Reed’s adorable young
son, and the silver loving-cup to the real class-baby, the daughter
of a certain Mary Jones, who had never in all her college course done
anything less commonplace than her name. On the day after commencement
she had married a Harding lawyer, and her living in town made the
display of her very small baby possible.
“It’s not every first year reunion that has one right here on hand to
be inspected,” declared Katherine Kittridge. “So here’s to Mary Jones,
if she wasn’t a highly exciting member of our highly exciting class.”
So Betty finally yielded to 19--’s demands for her own and Emily’s
release from duty, put the management of the suppers into Nora’s
capable hands, and resolved to wear the rose-colored satin dress that
she had bought in Paris and to forget for the one night that she was
anything but a “lady of leisure” come to her class reunion, just like
Bob and Babe and Roberta, without a care in the world or a thought
beyond the joy of being “back” with 19--. And partly, no doubt,
because the supper was so good and so well served, she succeeded.
Eleanor was lovelier than ever, and her little speeches cleverer; Bob,
on her other side, was jollier, Helen Adams more amusingly sedate,
K. more delightfully absurd. The toasts were as “superfine” as all
19--’s stunts, the songs went with a fine dash, the ploshkins made a
decided hit, and T. Reed’s little T.--it stood for Thomas instead of
Theresa--was so dear and comical, trying to pull his big ploshkin off
the table, and finally insisting on a chair for it between himself and
“Mother T.,” as everybody called her now. Betty realized suddenly that
she hadn’t had many “good times” this year, and that she had missed
them. Then she forgot everything but the perfectly splendid time she
was having right now, in the old care-free Betty Wales fashion. She
counted the minutes jealously, and sighed all to herself when the last
toast was over--K’s comical eulogy of “Our Working Women.”
But with the end of the supper the night’s fun was only well started.
Up the stairs to the loft, bearing the ploshkins solemnly above their
heads, climbed 19--, to sing to the little tenth year table; then out
to the Peter Pan Annex to salute the fifteeners and pelt them with
green carnations. The third year reunion was up in the gym; the seniors
were in the Student’s Building. Off trailed 19--, to the tune of the
ploshkin song, to return _en masse_ the serenades that had enlivened
its own supper. Up-stairs the tenth year people were not half-way
through their toasts. Down-stairs Nora turned the lamps low, so that
they would burn until 19-- came back for its forgotten wraps and its
last good-byes. It was a breathlessly hot night, so Nora left all the
windows open, and she and Bridget, their duties ended, went home to
well-earned rest.
It was long after midnight when 19--, having serenaded all the suppers,
all their favorite faculty, all their “loved spots” on the campus, came
back in scattered ranks and without music, for they had sung themselves
hoarse, to the Tally-ho. The other classes had left, and the tea-shop
was dusky and silent. Betty happened to be marching in the front rank
with Babe and Roberta.
“I ought to have come back ahead and lighted up for you,” she said. “I
thought Nora would stay until we got here, but it’s terribly late, and
I suppose she got sleepy.”
“We can hurry ahead and do it now just as well,” declared Babe, and the
three walked swiftly up the winding path and flung open the heavy door.
Though the lamps were turned low, they gave light enough to see by
easily, and there, sitting at the desk, bending over the pigeonholes,
was a tall woman wearing a dark dress and a dark, drooping hat, that,
in her present attitude, completely hid her face. The three girls
discovered the intruder at exactly the same minute.
“More Blunderbuss,” murmured Babe, remembering the mysterious robberies
of senior year. “Do you know her, Betty?”
“No,” Betty answered quickly.
“Then I’ll just hang on to her till we see what she’s taken,” cried
Babe impulsively, and launched herself fearlessly at the stranger,
while Roberta screamed; a relay of girls appearing in the door just
then rushed to Babe’s assistance, and Betty, not knowing what else to
do, turned up all the lamps.
The tall, black-gowned woman was unusually strong, but she was no match
for eight stalwart and determined members of 19--.
“I give up. Don’t smother me so,” she cried after a minute in a queer,
deep voice. Her hat had been knocked off in the struggle, and the short
hair and unmistakably masculine features that were revealed matched
the deep voice and the manly strength.
“Why, she’s a--a man,” cried Roberta, and redoubled her shrieks of
terror.
The man, still held firmly by his captors, struggled to his feet. “Shut
up, can’t you?” he demanded angrily of Roberta. “Call the police if you
want to, but don’t wake all the dogs and babies in the neighborhood,
and for pity’s sake”--to the others--“don’t squeeze my arms so. It’s
not ladylike.”
Almost unconsciously the girls loosened their hold a little, and the
prisoner, making one supreme effort, dashed straight at the terrified
Roberta, who stood near the door, and in another moment was out in the
dark, running like a deer for the factory fence. When he climbed over
the top, they could just see that he had left his skirt behind.
“Well, this is a crazy ending for a sedate little class supper,”
declared Babe, sorrowfully inspecting a great tear in her lace-trimmed
skirt.
“Wasn’t it queer how, when you knew it was a man, you couldn’t hold so
tight?” questioned Christy Mason.
“We ought to have chased him,” cried Roberta, to the vast amusement of
the rest.
“It wouldn’t pay,” Betty put in, “for there’s nothing of value here
that he could take away, and nothing in the desk that any one would
want.” She stopped to examine it. “Why!” she cried in dismay. “It’s
been sawed off, all the top part, and put back again. Look, Madeline!”
Sure enough, the top of the desk had been sawed off just below the
drawers, and then cut into three sections, which had finally been laid
in place again, so that at first sight the damage would not be noticed.
“The vandal!” cried Madeline. “He’s ruined our prize feature. And what
was his idea? Oh, I see! He couldn’t find the springs, and this was his
hateful way of getting into the secret drawers. Do let’s count them.
Two--four--that’s all. Then there wasn’t another drawer filled with a
king’s ransom in pearls for him to make off with. That’s certainly a
relief.”
“Oh, Madeline, do tell us what you mean,” came with one voice from
the crowd of wide-eyed girls; and with many promptings from Betty
and Babbie Madeline told the story of the secret drawers through all
its exciting stages, ending with her theory of the hidden jewels as a
possible motive for all the queer robberies.
“But that was evidently a little too wonderful,” she added, “though for
that matter the real explanation may be even more remarkable. I await
suggestions.”
These came thick and fast, but the best one was from Christy Mason.
“Those papers that Betty found are very likely to be what they want to
decide the ownership of some big estate or valuable lands. Old wills
and deeds are often very important. But why don’t they ask for them,
instead of trying to steal them?”
Madeline stared. “That rubbish! Why I think I---- Well, it doesn’t
matter, because the waste-basket is as safe as any other place while
I’m away. When I packed to come up here I think I tossed them into it,
but I’m perfectly sure I didn’t empty the basket. I never do till it
overflows. I’ll rush off on the six ten to-morrow--no, this morning,
and I’ll telegraph you, Betty; Dick will know, or father’s lawyer, if
the papers are the prize package. Good-bye, all you dear old 19--’s.”
So 19--’s collective farewells were said amid wild excitement, and
half the class waited over to be at the Tally-ho next morning when
Madeline’s telegram was delivered: “Papers safe in waste-basket. Two
thousand dollars reward.”
This was thrilling, but tantalizingly incomplete; 19-- departed gaily
with its half-loaf, having made Betty promise to indite a round robin
to the class explaining the whole affair.
“For it’s very much our affair,” Christy declared. “And don’t you write
until you can explain every single thing, Betty.”
It was only a day later, as it happened, when Betty had the whole
story. It seemed that the deed signed by “Peter” and witnessed by
Robert Wales was wanted, exactly as Christy had guessed, to determine
the ownership of a property worth many millions; and the lawyers of the
rightful heirs had offered a large reward for its recovery. Meanwhile a
daring adventurer, who was trying to assert his claims to the estate,
had hired a disreputable detective agency to find and destroy the
deed. Their clever work had traced it to its strange hiding-place, and
they had made three desperate attempts to get hold of the paper. The
fact that Mr. Wales was a relative of the rightful heirs--Robert and
“Peter” were cousins--had made them suspect that his daughter would
know of the search for the paper and refuse to give it up; but they had
never guessed that the girls would have discovered and emptied the two
inner drawers, of the existence of which nobody else knew but their
client. “Mr. Smith” did not represent any Boston antique shop, and
his knowledge of old furniture was confined to an exhaustive special
course in the arrangement of sliding panels and secret springs. But
though this had failed him he was a resourceful sleuth, as is proven
by the fact that just an hour after Madeline had taken the papers to
Dick Blake he appeared at her studio apartment in the guise of the
building’s window cleaner; and it was due only to Madeline’s prompt
recognition of his resemblance to the lady in black of the night
before, that in less than an hour more he had been arrested, charged
with despoiling the Tally-ho desk and also with entering Betty’s room
in the little white house with intent to take the papers if he could
find them there. For Betty had gone home to discover her possessions in
great confusion, and Dorothy had told of waking up to find somebody in
their room who said she was the washerwoman waiting for Betty to come
and give her the clothes.
“And when I said ‘you’re not our wash-woman ’cause she’s Mrs. Gibbs,’
she said she was Mrs. Gibbs’ sister, and Mrs. Gibbs was sick. And then
I guess I was asleep again,” Dorothy ended comprehensively.
From Betty’s rooms Mr. Smith had returned empty-handed to the Tally-ho,
where he had previously succeeded in opening two drawers; and this time
he completed his search in the most conclusive fashion that occurred to
him by laying open the whole interior of the desk.
It was a detective story ready-made, Madeline declared, and promptly
wrote it up, only to have one editor tell her that it lacked reality
and the next assure her it was commonplace.
“You certainly never can tell how things will take,” complained
Madeline sadly. “That’s what Mr. Morton says. He’s as nearly cross
with you as he can be with his dear Miss B. A., because ‘those fool
splashers’ that he got some shop to order a few of are catching on so
splendidly. It’s certainly fortunate that Bob Enderby thought of the
patent, for it seems there’s a small fortune in ploshkins.”
“Betty Wales and Co.” had certainly enjoyed a successful year. Will’s
salary had been raised three times, and Nan had made a fine record and
been asked to take a party of girls abroad for the summer. But between
tea-shop, ploshkins, and “hidden treasure,” Betty was what Will called
“most disgustingly wealthy.” It was great fun to be able to rush down
town in Cleveland and buy the Japanese screens and the hammock that
mother wanted for the piazza of the little cottage they had taken for
the summer in a lake-side suburb. It was better still to be accepted
joyously as the family cook. Now that she had plenty of money in the
bank for summer clothes and other expenses, and a steady income from
ploshkins, it was not necessary to waste time counting up how much
her cooking saved the family. The only disappointment came when father
absolutely refused to take her “ready money,” after what he had said in
the fall about how every little would help.
“I can’t do that,” he told her, “and I don’t need to now. We’ve pulled
through the worst of our business trouble, though we shan’t be back on
Easy Street for a good while yet, I’m afraid.” And he sighed a little.
But Betty only laughed. “Who wants so particularly to be back on Easy
Street?” she demanded. “It’s fun to see what you can do when you try. I
like being part of Betty Wales and Co. I like being the cook. I shall
like helping in any other ways that turn up.” Betty smiled a little
far-away smile. “Lots of queer things have turned up this year. I
certainly do wonder what I shall get into next.”
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
On page 164, pigeon-holes has been changed to pigeonholes.
On page 249, Beldon House has been changed to Belden House.
On page 343, francticially has been changed to frantically.
All other spelling and hyphenation has been retained as typeset.
Illustrations occurring in the middle of a paragraph have been moved to
avoid interrupting the reader’s flow.